


Show Me What I'm Looking For

by aliveinvividity



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Astraphobia, Blood and Gore, Bullying, Canon-Typical Violence, Cauterization, Child Abuse, Daryl has a small meltdown, Daryl is very emotional and refuses to show it, Did I mention that Paul Rovia is trying?, Explicit Language, Flashbacks, Graphic Description of Corpses, Hypermasculinity is a disease, Lack of Communication, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Paul is trying his hardest, Skinning of animals, Slow Burn, Slow emotional healing, Sterilizing a wound, Tags update as fic goes, Thunderstorms, Updates will sometimes just be spelling corrections, mentions of past character deaths
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-11-02
Packaged: 2018-08-08 15:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7762513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliveinvividity/pseuds/aliveinvividity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's lost them again. His family. His friends. Everybody.</p><p>Just like that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Save Me, I'm Lost

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was listening to the song Show Me What I'm Looking For by Carolina Liar, and the idea for this fic happened.
> 
> It just really gives off Darus vibes. For me, anyway. 
> 
> This fic is rated T, but the rating may change in the future. Slow burn and all that.
> 
> I dedicate this fic to Alexandra. Thank you for putting up with me. 
> 
> Tumblr: that-darus-boi

_Thwack!_

"Taking it like a _champ_!"

_Thwack!_

Daryl stares ahead of him, sights and sounds blurring into one. All that reaches his ears are the shrill wails of his family and the violent cracks of a barbed-wire baseball bat against a yielding skull. He can hear how easily the bone gives under the hard wood. It's sickening. Daryl doesn't even know who's receiving it's fatal treatment.

Warmth dribbles down his limp arm and he blinks at the dark, blurry tree line, dazed.

_Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!_

Sound comes and goes. Time slows down and speeds back up. Black dots filter his vision before slowly dancing away.

Rinse and repeat.

_Thwack!_

"Please, _stop it_!"

Following the plea is an anguished cry that fades out quickly. The last thing he registers is a tremulous " _no_!" before his face smacks against the cold, dark earth.

**

"-up! Get the _fuck_ up!" A figure shouts down at him before roughly yanking his body off the ground.

The pain in his shoulder is excruciating, like someone has a sharpened butcher knife and is repeatedly digging it into the same spot.

"Now fucking listen!"

He's on his knees, now. Negan stands before them all, Lucille in hand, leaking with fresh blood and littered with small chunks of torn flesh and hair.

He still doesn't know who died. Everyone is quiet, now, save for a few whines and hiccups.

"Now you all listen really fuckin' closely," Negan grins, admiring his prized bat with pride. "If you don't do as I say, I'm just gonna go down the fucking line and kill every last one of you." He twirls Lucille in one hand, and then gently hands her off to one of his henchman. "But I feel like you're all smarter than that," he chuckles, eyes twinkling with mirth. "So, what you're gonna do is- you're all gonna stand up, face a direction, and walk." The leader of the Saviours' laughs, then, his breath a large cloud in the cold air. "You're just gonna keep walking, and you're not gonna fucking stop! Well," he wrinkles his nose in thought. "You can stop..." He rubs his chin, before snapping his fingers. "In three days time! After those three days, feel free to do whatever in the fuck you want."

Negan eyes all of them closely before whistling. "Go on! Get!"

Like they were pests. Like he hadn't just taken a life.

A true psychopath.

Daryl stands, shakily. He's in pain. He's cold.

And he'll admit it: he's terrified. He doesn't know what to do.

But that's answered for him as he's shoved forward. He almost falls flat on his face, again.

So, Daryl walks. He walks and he walks and he walks into and through the dark wood, a thin blanket haphazardly thrown around his bloodied frame.

He feels like the little boy he once was, again. Running through the wilderness. Helpless and confused. Scared. Lost.

It's only just then that he realizes.

He's lost them again. His family. His friends. Everybody.

Just like that.

It's the incident with the governor all over again. Only this time, he actually knows that one of them has died.

But that's it.

Daryl thinks about Maggie and the baby. She's hurting. They couldn't have made her take this treacherous walk, too. He hopes that they at least didn't let her go alone. That maybe they lead her to the direction of Hilltop.

Then he thinks about Carl. He's young, and he doesn't know his way around a forest. The kid doesn't seem to be the type that's able to go alone for too long. Daryl hopes that they let Rick or Michonne go with him. If not them, then someone else.

He thinks of the others. He thinks of who could have died.

He stops thinking after that.

Daryl's stumbling now, wheezing as his lungs take in chilly, stale air. His entire body is numb, but the pain in his shoulder still resides.

There are tears. Those, he can feel. They're lukewarm, and they're trekking down his dirty cheeks and down his lips, leaving behind the taste of fine salt. Snot's slowly crawling from his nose, too, from the cold and his silent cry.

He doesn't know how he's managing, at this point. How he's still able to trek and bleed out like a stuck pig.

Time is lost on him, too. It feels like it's been hours since the sickening sound of a baseball bat and maniacal laughter resounded through the air. All that comes to him now are his struggling breaths and random creatures of the night.

There are times where he thinks he can hear the drawn-out groans of a walker, but that might just be him, making noises from the pain.

He doesn't really know, to be honest.

Out of nowhere, the sky seems to brighten. He's lost time, and now he knows that it's definitely been hours since the incident. The archer doesn't stop, though. A Saviour could pop out of the brush and kill him where he stood, he feels. If he quit moving.

Three days, Negan laughed.

So he wanders on.

**

"-ey?" A cautious whisper. "You awake?"

Daryl's eyes blink open to a blurry, empty sky. Someone is prodding him from the side, gently. He startles, spooked, only to end up wincing in pain.

"Careful! You'll break your stitches."

Daryl finds that he recognizes that voice, and he closes his eyes, officially worn out.

Paul Rovia. 


	2. Save Me From Being Confused

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate Negan, yes I do. I hate Negan, how bout' you?
> 
> Tumblr: that-darus-boi

If this was God's way of giving him a Heaven, he didn't want it. Bastard's already given him enough trouble.

"Are you thirsty?" Paul asks, reaching under his leather jacket for what Daryl supposes will be a canteen.

"No," he answers, taking the stubborn route. If the guy thinks they're gonna be all ' _buddy_ - _buddy_ ' after everything, he's wrong. Doesn't matter that the hippie saved his life. Daryl's had his life saved by plenty of untrustworthy assholes.

"Alright." A pause. "But I really think it's best that you take a sip. At the very least."

The archer turns over, then, meeting wide, cerulean eyes. Unlike their first meeting, Jesus appears to be tired and distressed. There are droplets of blood spattered across his cheek and matted in his beard. Just as the older man suspected, there's a silver canteen hanging limply from his gloved fingertips.

Jesus shakes it. "Please."

Reluctantly, Daryl takes the canteen and takes a small sip. He passes it back to the other man and lays back down, careful of his wound.

"What happened?" The redneck asks. He already has a small idea as to just what.

Jesus fiddles with his canteen before placing it back into the pocket of his jacket. "Negan." He's frowning. Looks off to the side. "He and his people came three nights ago."

' _When you were supposed to take care of them_ ' remains unspoken. Jesus is more mature than that.

"When he showed up, his bat was already bloodied up. I suspected that he," the other man trails off. "That he killed you all. Or, at least, a few of you." Another long pause. "He killed one of us. Again. Then he hand picked a few of us and told us to leave. Shoved us in a direction and told us to walk for three days non-stop. I was one of the few."

Daryl listens quietly, staring at a fat ladybug that's slowly making its way across a fallen leaf.

"Around the second day, I found you. You were passed out next to a creek bed nearby." He points a finger in a certain direction before continuing. "I saw your wound and cleaned it the best that I could." He chuckles mirthlessly. "It also turned out that I had a sowing needle on me. Somehow. Of course, I didn't have any string on me to sow you up. Had to make do with some of my hair." Jesus tugs at said long hair while explaining. "I also have no idea where I am. I've never travelled this far from Hilltop." An exhausted sigh bursts from his lips. "And that's what happened."

Daryl blinks. And blinks again. "Was any of my people with him?"

"Maggie was, but that's it."

"Was she okay?"

"I don't know, but I think they escorted her to medical help before I was forced out. If that's any consolation."

Silence.

"Do _you_ know where we are?" Rovia finally asks, a small sliver of hope coloring his tone.

Daryl has to disappoint him with a shake of the head.

"Fuck," Paul murmurs. "Do you think you could make your way back from where you came?"

He narrows his blue eyes in thought, tracing back to any memory he might have left of the last two nights. He draws a blank. Daryl could have stumbled in all sorts of directions in his state.

"No. You?"

"No. I lost sense of direction awhile ago. I came across some strangers and had to lose the trail I was making."

Fuck.

"At least we're both alive," Jesus settles on. "And it's kind of a miracle that we even found each other. Well, that I found you."

Daryl snorts. "This ain't gonna be no ' _ditto_ ' thing or whatever."

"I mean, a little gratitude would be nice."

A burst of anger flares up in the older man's chest as he rolls over, facing away from the hippie. "Fuck you, man. I didn't ask for none of your help."

Even more silence.

"Okay. I get it. This is a shitty situation in an even shittier world. But let's not forget, I feel just as you do right now." He hears Paul shuffle some dead leaves and dirt around. "The exact same thing happened to me. I watched someone I knew die. I was forced to leave my home and everything I came to know. I'm left with nothing, now, too." Pause. "I still have a fully functional shoulder, though." An unamused snort. "I know you don't exactly like me-"

"-ain't that the truth-"

"-but we need to stick together," Paul continues, ignoring Daryl's petty remark. "We need to stick together because we don't have anything. Our survival rate is higher _together_ than if we were to go our separate ways. And between you and me? You aren't exactly fit to be going anywhere soon. Especially if it's on your own. We need to find our way back _together_."

Daryl's grinds his teeth, eyes slanting in frustration. None of this was fair. It wasn't fair that he got his shoulder blown out, rendering him temporarily useless. It wasn't fair that his family was taken away from him because a man thought of himself as some alpha bitch. It wasn't fair that he was confused and lost in a forest, which was something he rarely felt, given his tracking skill. It wasn't fair that he was stuck with this nauseatingly hopeful little prick that called himself ' _Jesus_ '.

This life wasn't fuckin' fair. At all. To anybody and everybody.

But Paul was right. Their chances were higher if they stuck together. And that was that.

"Whatever," he decides. He's tired.

Jesus claps his gloved hands together. "Now that that's settled, I need to check your wound. I haven't looked at it since yesterday."

The archer grunts, uncovering said flesh wound from the confines of his ratty blanket. It looks bad. Really bad.

Paul carefully grabs the skin around the oozing wound, examining it closely. "I patched up what I could, but it needs more than stitches to heal." He bites his lip. "And it definitely needs something stronger than my hair to keep it held together. It's not exactly stemming any blood flow." He releases his lip from between his teeth, the worry etching itself into his eyebrows. "And we'll definitely need some antibiotics. There's a high risk of infection. Something we-you- _really_ don't need."

Daryl inhales and exhales, slowly. "We can tear off a piece of this shitty blanket. Wrap it around it. S' better than nothin'."

"For the moment," Jesus says, sitting back on his haunches. He reaches for his thigh, and unclasps a bowie knife from a small pouch wrapped around his leg. "For a neater cut." He takes the blanket from Daryl's hold, then, and begins cutting a long, fine strip to wrap around the wound.

The older man stares at the sharp object and how easily Jesus uses it to create a makeshift tourniquet.

"I've had it since before the turn," Paul says. "Got used to using it before everything. It's been really-" he grunts in exertion, tearing the strip entirely from the blanket. "- useful. I'm glad they didn't pat and seize before sending us off." He grabs Daryl's arm. Lightly. Kindly. "This may hurt a little."

It does hurt. It feels like Paul's rubbing hot coals into the skin where the cloth touches. He groans in pain, body seizing up.

It's over quickly, though. Thankfully. The pain returns to the state of being somewhat bearable.

"You should try to rest a little while longer." Jesus stands, looking around. "I'm going to start a small fire." Pause. "I want to cauterize the wound. Sorry, but it's our best option for right now, given that we most likely _won't_ have better stitching material and antibiotics anytime soon."

Daryl swallows thickly and nods.

"I'll heat up and use the bowie knife. Just an early courtesy warning."

Daryl grunts.

"It's alright. I can do all the talking for us."

And there's that obnoxious cheekiness Daryl was waiting for.


	3. Some Conversation, Cauterization, and A Frog Leg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me@God: "pls make darus canon lmao"
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for the lovely comments, my guys. <3 It's very much appreciated.
> 
> Also, not all of the chapters will be named after lyrics in the song. Like this one, for example.
> 
> Enjoy. 
> 
> Tumblr: that-darus-boi

He doesn't rest up like Paul suggested he should. He lies there on the ground, instead, waiting for the other man to return with fire-starting material. Daryl's careful not to let his hurt shoulder touch the hard earth. The pain pounds there with each heartbeat and shuddering breath.

Cicadas sing their monotonous chorus in the heat of the day. He catches the chirps of a few crickets, here and there. Some birds chirp every few minutes. A toad shrieks at what he supposes is something threatening. Sounds of a small creek reach his sensitive ears.

It'd be enjoyable and calming to listen to if it weren't the apocalypse. And he wasn't bleeding out.

Daryl sighs, shifting his forearm into a more comfortable position. When was that little shit coming back?

His eyes scan the area around him. It wasn't too open, underbrush and trees surrounding their small camp. Well, their tiny location, given that they had no tents or anything to even rest on; the only accommodation being Daryl's tiny, shredded blanket. Putting that aside, Paul did choose a nice place to hide out in. Their only threat might be the occasional walker, but that's it.

Still, though, he doesn't have a weapon to protect himself with. Dwight took everything he had after shooting him, the fucking prick. He's really starting to get pissed about the continuous loss of his crossbow. Daryl realizes he may never see it again because of the situation, which heats him up even more.

"I'm back," Jesus suddenly announces, popping out of the undergrowth. He's cradling dead, dry branches in the pit of his arms. "I also caught food." Daryl sees the long, fat legs of a frog dangling from the younger man's jacket pocket as he says this. That may have been the 'toad' he heard, earlier. "I hope you like frog legs because that's what you're getting." Pause. "Well, a frog _leg_. I couldn't find any other ones."

"Won't hear no complaints outta me," Daryl rasps, sitting up.

"And would you like to eat before or after cauterization?" Paul asks as he sets his sticks down.

"After. Don't wanna throw nothin' up."

"Alright." He pulls the dead amphibian from his pocket, then, setting it on the ground. Following the lifeless creature are a couple of flint stones. "Found these awhile back. Haven't let go of them since." Jesus then pulls dry moss from the other leather pocket. The perfect burning material.

"Well, ain't you the boy-scout of the post-apocalyptic world," he can't help but murmur.

The hippie faces him with a small grin. "I _was_ a boy-scout, actually. In middle school. You learn some pretty useful stuff." He holds up a flint stone. "Starting a fire was one of the many basic things you learn. Same goes for where you should look when you need some fire-starting materials."

The older man scoffs at that. "Didn't need none of that. S' all just common sense."

"Well, some people need to _learn_ your version of ' _common sense_ '," Rovia air-quotes, setting his branches into a certain position to be burned in. "Just be thankful you don't have to be the one doing this. You won't have to go through anymore pain than you're already in because I was in _boy_ - _scouts_."

The redneck doesn't grace the other man with a response, opting instead to lie back down.

Silence stretches over them like a canvas, save for the clicks and clacks of sticks being set up.

"Did you catch any winks?" Jesus finally asks, sitting back, checking if he might need to readjust his makeshift pile of branches.

"Nah," Daryl says, watching the younger man at work.

"Understandable," he replies, shifting the stack around. "You were out for a day and a half. I was beginning to think you wouldn't wake up." Some more shifting. "Even so, I wouldn't have left you behind. If that's what you're thinking."

The redneck nods, silent. "Why'd you help me, anyways?" _Why **didn't** the younger man leave him behind_? _Why **not** save himself_?

"It's the end. Gotta stick together."

"Y'don't even know me."

Jesus turns around to stare at him. "I know enough to see that you and your people are good. A bit," he tilts his head back and forth, "unorthodox, but good." He turns back, grabbing the dead moss and flint stones. "That's why I helped you." He clicks the stones together, swift, creating the spark they needed. The younger man shoves some of the moss with one hand underneath the nest of sticks, then, preparing it for the sparks.

"Thanks," Daryl finally says, voice barely above that of a murmur.

Paul replies, "no problems", just as the fire gets going.

He reaches under his jacket, pulling out the bowie knife once the flames have hit a certain height. "Any rocks around here?" Rovia mutters to himself, looking around.

The archer spots a fair-sized one next to his leg, leaning up to grab it. "Here," he rasps, tossing it over.

"Thanks," the smaller man replies, catching it midair. "I'm gonna place the handle of the knife on it, and direct the blade into the fire." He does just so. "Don't wanna melt the handle by accident or get it dirtier than it has to be." Paul sits back from his crouched position, crossing his legs with a fatigued sigh. He claps his gloved hands together, dust flying from the leathery material. The younger man shifts around to face Daryl. "How you holdin' up?"

"Like shit," he responds, grimacing as he shifts away from the other, creating personal space.

Paul scratches his beard, nodding.

Awkward silence.

"Is it alright if I asked what happened?" The younger man asks, gently. Calmly.

Daryl stares at him, face blank.

"It's completely understandable if you don't want to." Paul slowly shifts around to face the fire. Can't look at the redneck. Intimidated.

More awkward silence.

"Was shot by one of his men," Daryl mutters. "They came outta no where."

No reply. A silent prod to continue.

"They put me and some others in the back of a truck." He remembers the dark. Remembers Michonne and Rosita holding both of his hands. Tightly. Afraid. Glenn pressed up against his unwounded side, trembling at the thought of the unknown. "When they threw us out, it was around night time. My group was all lined up." He swallows before continuing. "He was there. All smilin' and laughin'. Killed one of us, but I don't," Daryl trails off. "I don't know who. Passed out before I could see. When I woke up, he told us all to go." His hand tightens its grasp on the small blanket in his lap, knuckles turning white. "Same rules he gave you. Walk three days non-stop." Pause. "Must've passed out from blood loss." He looks up into the tree canopy, emotional. "Now m' here."

Jesus is looking at him, silent. His glowing eyes are full of sympathy. No pity. Some empathy.

"I'm sorry this happened," he says. "He and his men are terrible people. Even if you _had_ killed them all, there would still be others like them. No way around it."

Daryl thinks of those men he joined when he lost Beth. The same men who tried to kill Rick and his family. Himself. He nods in sullen agreement.

Paul looks down, a small frown on his lips. He turns to examine the bowie. "Knife's ready."

Daryl inhales, slowly.

"I'm gonna break the stitches with it first. They should break from the heat alone." He pulls one of his gloves off with his teeth and then the other. Places them on the ground. Unwraps the wound and places the bloodied strip of cloth down beside him. Carefully picks up the heated knife. "Don't wanna leave any of my hair trapped in the skin." He grabs Daryl's arm. Paul breaks the stitches as fast as he can, but it still hurts. "I'm sorry," he repeats quietly, every time Daryl hisses or growls. He pulls back, setting the blade back into the fire. "I'm going to tug them out now. Okay?" He does just that. Daryl feels it all. The sting of each individual hair dragging through his skin, fresh blood dripping from the uncovered wound.

"Fuck," Daryl hisses, digging his fingers into one of his pant legs.

It's over quickly, though. That side of the gunshot wound, anyway.

As soon as the other side is unstitched, Paul quickly grabs the knife. "I'm so sorry for this. No hard feelings, right?" Daryl glares at him. "Right. Here," he suddenly says, handing him one of the gloves. "Bite down on this." He puts it in Daryl's mouth, and the archer's teeth clamp down, hard. "Don't want to attract any unwanted attention." He goes frigid with anticipation.

As soon as the fiery blade makes contact, he yells, the glove only barely muffling the sound. Paul doesn't say anything this time. Just holds onto the skin around the wound and presses down with the knife. As soon as the smell of cooked flesh hits his nose, nausea makes itself immediately known. He breathes harshly into leather, eyes watery.

Paul quickly makes his way behind the archer as soon as he finishes, pressing the blade into the other side. He moves the blade around like he's spreading butter on toast.

Daryl cries out, muscles convulsing from the shocking pain. The archer can hear and feel his skin bubbling and sizzling. He has to force himself not to dry-heave.

"I'm done, I'm done," the smaller man suddenly says, calm. "It's over." He pulls away, then, bare hands in the air.

Daryl rips the glove from between his mouth, getting on his hands and knees. He pukes up the yellow liquid of his stomach's fluids, coughing violently. A minute or two passes before he's done, breathing hard. Saliva dribbles down his chin when he sits back up. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, and looks Paul square in the eyes. " _Fuck_ you."

The younger man blinks in surprise and then smiles.

"And make my frog leg." Daryl lets himself fall on his ass before continuing, "M' hungry."

Rovia nods, smile widening. "Of course."

**

The frog leg is the best damn leg he thinks he's ever had.

Maybe that's just his overbearing hunger talking, though.

 

 


	4. A Survivor Of Child Abuse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this chapter to @heartunbroken on Twitter.
> 
> Thank you for listening to my random, dumbass headcanons. 
> 
> Stay chill and enjoy. 
> 
> tumblr: that-darus-boi

_Daryl hears a hacking cough followed by hefty wheezes from the other side of the trailer, a sign that Earl Dixon was straining to do something._

_"Boy, get your fuckin' ass in here!"_

_The young redneck immediately stands, head lowered, shoulders up, fast-walking to his drunken father. When he reaches him, the older man stares, dark eyes narrowed and glassy. His black hair is thinning, and a pool of sweat darkens the chest of his grey t-shirt, a testament to the summer's heat and absence of an AC. Moth-bitten boxers are the only thing covering his lower half, and he's splayed out on a beaten up armchair, legs widely spread. The small TV in the trailer is airing some random football game, the sound fuzzy and muted in the background._

_"Get me a fuckin' beer," he slurs, drunkenly shaking an empty bottle at the boy. "Don't make me tell ya' fuckin' twice, neither."_

_Daryl's staring at a half-smoked cigarette that's held between the other man's fat fingers, ashes falling to the stained carpet before quietly replying," Yes, sir."_

_Politely taking the bottle, he carefully steps out of the room and into the roach-infested kitchen. Their dirty mini fridge opens up to reveal spills, cheap beer, and a jar of moonshine. No food, save for an empty bottle of expired ketchup and a bare few other condiments. A cockroach scurries out and falls onto the floor near Daryl's dusty, bare feet before hurriedly scuttling away. Multiple flies buzz around his ears, and he swats at them._

_"Hurry the **fuck** up!"_

_Daryl shakily takes a bottle at random and shuts the fridge's door, running into the living room to hand his father said beverage._

_"Took you fuckin' long enough," Earl growls, snatching the beer from him. Before Daryl can get away, his father catches him by the forearm, squeezing tight enough to bruise. "Who the fuck said y'could leave? Sit down, boy."_

_He nods, his father letting him go as he sits right where he stands. Daryl muscles are stiff, and his body doesn't move anywhere else._

_"Merle told me somethin' this mornin'," Dixon says, popping the lid off the mouth of his beer. "Somethin' pretty fuckin' **interestin** '."_

_The young boy swallows hard, corn flower eyes flickering to a random cigarette stub on the floor._

_Big mistake. The older man violently slaps him, leaving behind a harsh sting. His large hand suddenly takes him by the chin, forcing him look into his father's overbearing orbs. His pupils are blown wide, a dark blue ring the only noticeable presence of eye color. "You look at me when I fuckin' speak to you, brat."_

_Daryl silently nods._

_"He told me you pissed the fuckin' bed again," Earl continues, then, crudely releasing him and taking a long swig from his beer. "Why's that, huh? You a fuckin' baby? **You need a fuckin** ' **diaper** , **boy**!?" Dixon suddenly shouts, voice raising to an alarming octave._

_"N-no, sir," he stutters, eyes lowered, shoulders hunched._

_"You fuckin' scared, huh? Gonna be a little fuckin' piss-pants baby? **Huh** , bitch!?" Earl suddenly chucks his drink, the bottle shattering into small fragments against the trailer's far-side wall._

_A wintery chill shoots up the young boy's spine and shocks through his veins in the short span of one second._

_Daryl can only quickly cover his head and kneel close to the ground as his father stands and pummels the 13-year-old with meaty fists. "Get up! Get the **fuck** up, you little prick!"_

_If he does, Earl will aim for his face. Leave behind mean bruises for him to explain to the teachers again._

_"Get up! Get up! Get up-"_

"-get up!" Daryl suddenly realizes he's being fervently shaken awake, and he blinks his eyes open. The archer is sweating, the liquid pooling in copious amounts at the crevices of his neck, armpits, and back. Heart hammering angrily inside his chest, he's surprised he didn't punch the hippie in the face. The man's lucky he's grown so damn used to those damned nightmares. "Please don't say anything," Paul whispers from somewhere off to the side. He feels a hand lightly pressed against his un-cauterized shoulder. "Listen."

It's pitch black out, now, and the small fire they had going was put out. He can't see anything at the very moment, pupils adjusting to the dark. All that they can catch is the moonlight shining bright in the canopy above.

Daryl then listens, as Rovia demanded, but there's nothing to hear. The forest is silent. No crickets. No frogs or toads. Nothing.

And that's when he hears it. The unmistakable groans of walkers. And it sounds like a hoard, multiple moans and snarls reaching both men's ears. There's no telling which direction it's coming from, either, given their location.

The redneck's sight decides to return to him fully, then. Paul is crouched down right next to him, bright, frightened eyes scanning the area.

"I don't know where they're coming from, but I do know that we need to leave," he says, silently. "Are you fit for running?"

"I got shot in the shoulder, not my damn legs," he rasps, sitting up into a crouch parallel to the younger man.

Paul nods, nervously, throat convulsing on a thick swallow. "Okay, which way should we go?"

Daryl stares at him from their uncomfortably short distance. "Why're you askin' me?"

"Call it a trust exercise," he blurts, exasperated. "Please hurry, though."

Sounds of numerous scuffles begin to reach their range of hearing, and Daryl closes his eyes, offering himself better clairvoyance. "That way," the tracker suddenly points, after a short few seconds, direction leading right behind the other man's back.

"Okay," he breathes. "Okay, okay."

They make their escape silently, avoiding as many fallen leaves or stray twigs that they can.

But nothing is ever so easy in this new world.

Daryl's still light-headed from loss of blood, and he stumbles. A large stick cracks under the misstep, and the garbled groans of the undead quiet down before starting back up in an even louder tone. They're close.

" _Shit_!" Paul hisses. "Daryl, get in front of me, and run!" As soon as the redneck gains his footing, he takes off, Jesus propelling him forward. "Don't hold back- I can keep up!"

The thing is, the older man _isn't_ holding back. He's exhausted, and that brings him to a well-paced jog. Paul was right in asking him if he was fit for this or not.

It's a pace that won't be enough to survive the night.

Walkers drown out anything Jesus might be saying from somewhere behind him, and he almost sobs.

" _What are you_ , _a fuckin' pussy_?" He hears Merle's voice shout. " _You can outlive yer' daddy_ , _but you can't run a little_? _The fuck's wrong with you_?"

Daryl wheezes, a tearless cry tearing from his throat.

" _Take off yer' high heels_ , _Darylena_! _Stop bein' such a little bitch_!"

He can see his older brother in the corner of his eye, jogging along-side him, a taunting smirk on his lips. " _You got shot in the shoulder_ \- _**whatever**_! _Daddy's beaten you senseless_ , _and you were still able to run off into the woods_! _Got yerself lost like a fuckin' dumbass_ , _but you still got away_! _So what's the problem_ , _huh_?"

The archer shakes his head back and forth, gasping for breath. "Shut up," he rasps, but it's covered up by all the cacophony of inhuman moans. "Shut up."

" _I'll shut up when you nut up_ , _little brother_!"

Sweat trickles down from his hairline and drips off his nose. His chest is rattling with strangled breaths.

A hand suddenly pushes him forward. His pace finally quickens.

"Keep going!" He vaguely hears, Merle disappearing and reality coming back to him in a vivid whirlwind of sight and sound. "Look ahead!"

Daryl does, blue orbs catching an end to the wood surrounding the both of them. They burst into an open, dead cornfield, small stalks lying in every direction. The walkers follow dead on their heels.

A red barn is at least one-hundred yards ahead, placed directly next to the field, ready for them to hide out in. The moon is shining over them and the undead, bathing everything in silver. Making it easier to see.

"We can make it!" Paul exclaims, now running by his side.

Daryl doesn't reply, opting instead to focus on getting to their safe haven.

Again, nothing is ever so easy in this new world.

Something snags him by the back of his shirt, and he falls.

 

 

 


	5. Stand By Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what did we DO to deserve Tom Payne and Norman Reedus?
> 
> also, I had to write this faster than usual cause ppl yelled at me for the cliffhanger lmao
> 
> Tumblr: that-darus-boi

A terrified cry makes its way up his throat and past his lips as the undead pull him down. Their hands are all over him, at least four of them snapping their rotting jaws at his flailing limbs.

Daryl kicks out, thrashing wildly at any that get too close to him, adrenaline pumping.

"Daryl!" he catches over it all. A primal yell. Flesh hitting flesh. The _thump_ of a body hitting the ground.

One gets close enough for him to take a good look at. Its gender is untraceable, now, features ugly and distorted. Strands of dead hair get into his mouth, and its milk-colored, filmy eyes bore into his own. Hard corn stalks dig into every bit of the plane of his back, tearing his shirt when he moves too much. The burn wounds from his recent cauterization flare up with a fiery vengeance.

Daryl's calloused hands grab its shoulders, trying to pry its emaciated body off of his own. Its rotted teeth gnash and clack against empty air, only inches away, aiming to take a decent chunk out of him. The walker's hands scrape at his clothed chest, but its nails are missing- torn off- flaps of dead skin hanging in their places.

Thick, black blood drips like sludge from its mouth and onto his face. The archer turns away, eyes and mouth tightly shut, kicking and shoving and pushing. It's all he can do, now.

This was how he was going to die. In an empty cornfield with the company of the undead and a complete stranger.

Not with his family at his back.

He's going to die alone.

The writhing creature is suddenly torn off of him and thrown to the side. The archer opens his eyes to the sight of Paul Rovia, round house kicking another before it can reach them, hair flying, thick boot smashing into the hungry walker's face. It caves in like he's smashing a dead pumpkin.

A feral shout escapes the smaller man when he kicks another, fists tucked into his sides, leg easily sailing through the air and into its concave chest. It hits the ground with a harsh _thud_.

He turns to face Daryl, then. "Get up! Get to the barn!"

The redneck heaves himself off of the ground, corn and mud sticking to his clothes. He's in shock, blinking rapidly at the scene before he takes off, the sound of Paul yelling behind him, "I'll meet you there! Don't worry, and don't hold up!"

With the help of adrenaline, he sprints, the distance between the barn and himself getting closer and closer with this newfound speed.

The strained sounds of Paul and his foes are quickly left behind, but he doesn't slow down. He doesn't want to take that chance.

As soon as he reaches his destination, Daryl squeezes his way in through a decent sized crack between the barn doors. A small bit of his shirt tears off in the process.

Once inside, his eyes immediately spot a gleaming, metal ladder on the floor with the help of the full moon.   
It's pure luck that there aren't any walkers stumbling around inside.

The redneck jogs over and picks up the tall ladder with a groan, breathing hard as he places it against the spot that will take him up into the hay-loft.

He climbs its rungs quickly, not pausing for any breath or breaks until he finally reaches the top. Daryl doesn't think he's ever been so pleased to fall into a pile of musty, old straw and circulating dust.

The redneck rolls over onto his back, breathing out his mouth with strong, shocked breaths. His blue eyes are narrowed as he stares up at the barn's ceiling, a gaping hole offering the sight of a moonlit, starry sky. Swirls of white and gold and blue and pink and red light up its black canvas in mass numbers, the full moon accompanying it all. Its white light seems boundless. Rays from the giant globe pass through the red building's cracks in a stream of pure silver. It was all something you could never see in a well-lit city before the turn. It's a sight for sore eyes.

He grabs his shoulder with a small wince, the pain making any position uncomfortable.

A few minutes pass before he finally settles down.

It's only then when Paul enters his mind. Was the hippie okay? Or did the walkers get to him? It sounded awful to admit, but if the younger man _did_ actually die, it wouldn't really faze Daryl. He barely knew him. Yeah, he helped him, but there were plenty of people that did that in this new world.

If Paul Rovia was dead, he would become a small memory that might come up occasionally and nothing else. That strange man who saved his life. Twice.

That's it.

An hour of utter silence filled with star gazing passes.

That's why the older man startles when the rungs of the ladder creak and clatter under newfound weight.

Daryl looks away from the sky to meet tired eyes and wild hair.

"Hi," Jesus greets, breathlessly, heaving himself up and into the hay pile next to the older man. A cloud of dust erupts from under the sudden weight, and Daryl coughs.

The smaller man turns over onto his back, too, bright orbs also catching the hole in the roof. Sweat glitters on his skin, causing strands of hair to stick to his flushed cheeks and neck. His beanie has almost fallen completely off, but he doesn't seem to have noticed. Rotten flesh cakes the bottom of his boots, and there's blood spatter on both his leather jacket and gloves.

Once his breathing evens out, he sighs.

Silence, save for some crickets outside the old, abandoned barn. Growls of far-off, clueless walkers. He thinks he catches the scurries and squeaks of barn mice, as well. The distant screech of an owl.

"Nice night," Jesus suddenly mutters, blinking, eyes wide.

Daryl scoots and turns over onto his stomach, farther away from the other man. The redneck might have found it humorous if he wasn't so exhausted. He only hums in reply.

There aren't any other words or sounds made between them. The older man closes his eyes to the sounds of a moon-lit night and the quiet scuffles of Paul turning over for his own desperately-needed rest.

Sleep comes easily. 


	6. The Farmhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so, in case you haven't checked out the tags, this fic is gonna be a slow burn
> 
> And when I say "slow burn" I mean SLOW ASS BURN AS IN DARYL HAS BARELY EVEN WARMED UP TO THE THOUGHT OF FRIENDSHIP WITH PAUL BECAUSE OF THE WHOLE FOOD TRUCK INCIDENT LMAO
> 
> so, a kiss or even the thought of a crush won't come until way, WAY later
> 
> daryl strikes me as the type to take FOREVER to gain a crush on someone (especially when they had a bad start)
> 
> A long time to even REALIZE he has a crush on someone and accept it as fact
> 
> Also, don't get confused whenever Daryl suddenly lashes out at Paul for no reason. Poor boi was separated from his family, whom he loved with all of his being.
> 
> Paul was, too, but he strikes me as the type who's better at handling his emotions.
> 
> Anyways, thanks so much for your comments! They are my fuel.
> 
> Enjoy. <3
> 
> tumblr: that-darus-boi

Daryl awakens to take in barn walls and a rumbling sky. Sprinkles of rain drum against the roof of the building and down onto his visible body. Judging by how much light the cavernous hole offers, he decides that it's early in the morning.

With an inconvenienced grunt, Daryl rolls over and stands, only to find out that Paul is nowhere to be seen. The smaller man's pair of blood spattered gloves and beanie are lying in the same spot he had slept. There are words graven into the wooden floor there, ( _presumedly with the bowie knife_ ) and the redneck inches closer for inspection.

" **Went to farmhouse for supplies. Be back soon. :)** "

Daryl wrinkles his nose at the message and stares at the dirt-covered floor of the barn. He might as well join the younger man in his search. His group always found more supplies when more people were involved. An uncomfortable swell of emotion sits in his chest at the thought of them. His lost family.

The ladder rattles under his weight as he makes his way down. The archer reaches the bottom at his own pace, this time, which is the polar opposite of his speed the night before. A small mouse scurries over his boots and into a small nest made of dusty straw once he reaches the ground floor. Stomach growling, Daryl's almost tempted to investigate. He decides not to. Maybe later, if they don't come across any food.

The crack between the barn doors offers him a nice view of the deadened yard. The farmhouse is a little thing- white and kinda ramshackle. Two stories tall. Some dark gray tiles on the roof are out of place and windows are cracked. The color of the house is noticeably dull. It was rare to come across a place that _wasn't_ in a state of disrepair after everything went to shit. A windmill sits next to the house, the blades weathered and unmovable. Rusted over. There isn't a vehicle in sight- from his point of view, anyway. A couple of stragglers are tripping around, rasping weakly and searching for food. A big meal would only be wasted on them. Fall out of their skeletal bellies. These ones looked like they would fall over and die from just the slightest gust of wind. It's no wonder Jesus ignored them. Still, it was better to be prepared. And prepared, he wasn't.

He's defenseless, his usual weapons stripped away from him by Dwight and his little fuckin' gang. Even his knife.

Daryl leans away from the doors and decides to look around. There had to be some sort of object in there that could be fashioned as a weapon.

A tool table sits in the far-left corner of the barn, and Daryl makes his way toward it, crushing dead mice and dried feces under his torn boots in the process. A large, yellow monkey wrench catches his eye and he takes it, testing the heavy weight of it with both hands. Some nails and a bent up screwdriver are the only other items scattered on the table's splintered surface.

For the time being, the wrench was the best option available.

Makeshift weapon in hand, Daryl returns to the doors and squeezes through. It's cool outside, testament to the wind and rain. It stirs up his messy hair as he trots towards the house, wary of the worn down creatures trekking around the area. One ventures a little too close for his liking, and he forcefully strikes it in the jaw, crushing the skull and knocking it off of its feet, killing it instantly.

He kills a few others before finally reaching the other building.

One hand over his eyes, he peeks through a dirty window. It reveals what he assumes to be the living area. Furniture is upturned or broken, and a few dusty family pictures frame the walls. Again, Jesus is nowhere to be found.

The archer pulls back and makes his way around the house, aiming to head in through the front door. Daryl guesses that's the way Paul took, given that he seemed to be one of the more ' _orthodox_ ' people he's ever come across in these times. Even if he did steal a food truck.

The door opens to a small hallway which leads into the living room. A set of stairs sits in front of him, too, to the right of the hall. The peeling, pastel yellow wallpaper is a repeating pattern of a bundle of pink flowers. It may have been homey and welcoming before it all, but now it was just plain un-comforting to look at.

He stands in front of the open door, listening for any sounds that might come up.

Silence.

"Paul," he tries, eyes narrowed. No answer. "Paul?" He gently closes the door behind him. His legs inch further into the hallway and stop mid-way through. His hand tightens its grip on the wrench. A little louder this time. "Paul?"

Some rustling. The sounds of cans bumping against one another. "In here!" The reply comes from somewhere past the main room, and the redneck stomps forward, careless about anymore sound he makes. If the younger man's answer was that loud, he must've taken care of anything dangerous that was left in the broken home. That, or he was an idiot.

Daryl slows to a stop before reaching his destination, though, to take a closer look at the pictures framed in the living room. An older man with what he assumes is his wife and child are standing in front of the barn next to the house. The barn's red color is much more vivid and vibrant. New. They're all smiling, teeth white and shiny in the light of the sun. A perfect family.

Daryl stares hard at all of their faces, but he stares longer at the father's. His white beard and hair are stark against his tanned skin. Cream colored overalls and a white work shirt adorn his body. The archer is immediately reminded of Hershel and the farm. It brings both the feeling of nostalgia and uneasiness. Hershel died a terrible and unnecessary death. He was a good man who was sorely missed by all of the group.

Daryl then thinks of Maggie, who lost both Hershel and Beth in quick succession.

Of Sophia, who was long gone before any of them even began searching for her. How much he wanted to save that little girl from such a fate, only to realize that it was all in vain ...

"You okay?" Paul is suddenly standing next to him, eyes wide with concern. Hippie needs to stop doing sneaky shit like that.

Daryl rolls his shoulders, wincing at the pain from his cauterized wound. "M'fine," he mutters, turning away from the picture and walking past the smaller man.

He enters a dining room that's conjoined with the kitchen. The archer also spots a few cans haphazardly thrown together on one of the kitchen counters. Different cabinet doors have been left open, revealing empty, cob-webbed insides.

"Found some canned fruit. That's it, though." Paul stands next to Daryl, again, the both of them looking down at his meager findings. Hands on his hips. "I'm hoping I'll scrounge up a bag to carry them in" the younger man sniffs, wiping his forehead clear of sweat with the back of a gloveless hand. His long hair is tangled and messy- dark with the perspiration he tries to rid himself of. "Haven't checked for anything upstairs yet." Pause. "Care to join?"

"Whatever," Daryl shrugs. It seemed that was the normal answer to any question the hippie asked of him. He also realizes that since the other man didn't check the upstairs for danger, his yelling could have stirred some shit up. And Daryl wouldn't have even expected it. Dumbass. They could've probably been killed.

Skin prickling with irritation, the archer heads back to the front of the house, expecting Rovia to follow suit. The archer jogs up the stairs to find that they are creaky and worn.

"Careful," Rovia warns, directly behind him. "Anything could be up here."

Daryl refrains from making a childish remark about how he could handle himself. Or spit out a little ' _no shit_ '. Both were sensible answers, in his mind.   
  
At the top of the wooden steps, they are met with the sight of another hallway. Same wallpaper, same color. Also peeling. Two white doors on the left side and two white doors on the right side, spaced about four feet apart. A tall window sits at the very end of it, rain dousing its grimy exterior.

"You take the right, I'll take the left?" Jesus suggests, unsheathing his bowie knife.

The older man grunts, taking a hunter's stance, hold tightening around his makeshift weapon. Paul does just the same.

Slowly, he steps towards the first door. He then pushes it open, carefully stepping inside. On the alert.

Only to be met with an empty room, save for a small bed, dresser, and closet. White paint, no wallpaper. It's a very basic layout, and Daryl decides that it once served as a guest room. He straightens up and ambles towards the dresser. The redneck ends up finding some rubber bands, a hairbrush, q-tips, a bible, and some bobby pins. No clothes.

He tosses the few items ( _save for the bible_ ) on the bed to take for later.

The closet opens to reveal bare space.

A large, brown trunk is underneath the bed, but nothing is inside of it when he opens it.

He stands with a tired sigh, leaving the room to check the next one. Daryl notices that Paul has already gone through his first room and is ransacking the other.

He sniffs, heading into the opposite space. No danger inside of there, either.

It's another guest room. Same layout as the last, same furniture.

The dresser opens to empty contents. There isn't a trunk under the bed, this time.

The closet, though, contains a floral-themed knapsack. One of the few things they really needed. He turns it over in his hands, checking for any holes or tears. There aren't any, which is good. Means it'll last them awhile.

The archer steps out of the room, then, knapsack in hand, and heads back into the previous guest room. He grabs all of the items on the bed and throws them in the bag. As soon as he's finished, Daryl walks out and into the room Jesus is still inside of.

It's the master bedroom. The king-sized bed that covers half the area is a dead giveaway. So is the small bathroom. It's also painted a pastel yellow, unlike the guest rooms' plain white color. Jesus is looting one of the two dressers in the room, down on one knee, sweat dripping off the end of his nose. He looks up as Daryl enters.

"There's still some fresh water in the basin behind the toilet. I've already filled the canteen, so if you happen to come across a bottle, feel free to fill it for yourself. More water for the both of us." He eyes the sack in the older man's hand. "I also found some clean clothes, if you're interested. Slightly moth-bitten, but clean."

Jesus has forgone his usual leather jacket, leaving him in a blue vest. The jacket is lying on the bed, the end of it hanging off the far edge. Paul's dark pants are rolled up to his knees, and his hair is now tucked behind his ears. Doesn't stop the sweat trickling from his hairline, though, testament to the humidity in the air.

"Find anything other than the bag?" He questions.

"Found hair bands, bobby pins, a brush, and some q-tips," the taller man rasps, tossing the bag onto the bed- right on top of the jacket.

Paul returns to what he's doing. "I found clothing and a first aid kit, which was in the bathroom under the sink. Which is good. It has stuff in it that I can apply to your wound." He pauses. "Also, can you hand me a rubber band?"

Strangely obedient, the archer unzips the bag and grabs a hair band, casually tossing it to the other man. Catching it midair with a soft, "thanks," he expertly pulls his hair up into a bun. A few strands fall out of it, clinging to sweaty skin, but other than that, it stays in place. Rovia goes back to work, then. Daryl takes a seat on the bed, eyes flickering around the room.

Silence.

That was becoming a thing between them, now.

The hippie, as usual, breaks it. "Would you like to sleep in the farmhouse, tonight? It's better than a wet hayloft."

"Nah."

"... Alright."

Quiet, again. It lasts for only a few minutes.

"You're sure? A bed is a lot better than some straw."

"I said no," Daryl snaps, eyes narrowed. "Ain't gonna say it again."

Rovia huffs out a sigh, shutting the dresser drawers a little harder than necessary. "Suit yourself."

The hunter's lips thin out, blue eyes like chips of ice. He abruptly gets on his feet. "M'leavin. I'll be in the barn if you need anythin'."

The older man angrily storms out of the room, then, bringing only the rusted monkey wrench with him.

"Okay," Jesus murmurs, quietly. It sounds almost pitiful to the now-empty room.

The door slams shut, rattling the home in Daryl's sudden harsh exit.

Thunder drums in the distance.

 


	7. Astraphobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dedicate this to Snoe. Thank you for being patient with me.
> 
> Same goes for everyone else! Thank you so, so much for comments. <3 
> 
> The song Paul's mother sings is Gypsy by Fleetwood Mac. 
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> tumblr: that-darus-boi

_He's huddled under the covers, the thick blue quilt up over his head. The heat and humidity of summer makes it unbearable, but he doesn't care._

_Another brilliantly bright flash. Paul flinches, a whimper trapped in his throat._

_'One Mississippi ... Two Mississippi ... Three Mississi-'_

_**CRASH**._

_He cries out, ripping off the covers and running out of his room. His mom is already waiting for him, sitting up in bed, arms open when he slams into her room._

_"Momma!" he shrieks, crawling into bed with her. "Momma, I'm scared!" His voice is small- shrill- but that's to be expected from an 11-year old._

_"I know, honey, I know," she whispers soothingly, cradling him close. Her soft hands wipe the sweat from his forehead. Pet his hair._

_Another flash of lightning whitens the room, and the young boy lets out a choked sob. His small arms tighten their grip around his mother._

_Momma shushes him quietly, in short, sharp puffs of breath. "I'm here, I'm here."_

_Paul blinks against her chest, sniffling. There's sweat staining her shirt, too. The absence of an AC will do that._

_Ever since dad left, they've had less. Paul still doesn't understand why he abandoned them. Momma's so good and kind-_

_**CRACK**_.

_Another cry erupts from his chest. He can't stop them._

_"Hey, hey," mom said, turning his face towards her own. She kisses him on the cheek. A little peck. It soothes him, but only a little. His tight grip on her shirt hasn't loosened one bit. "Do you want a song?"_

_He nods, tears staining his cheeks. Paul doesn't think he's capable of any words._

_More soft petting against his hair. His mother's voice comes out softly, making tight knots unfurl in his chest._

_"[So I'm back to the velvet underground](https://www.google.nl/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=2&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwje4J3m5pjPAhWHvRoKHXPrBMoQtwIIKzAB&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DEX8tFvInN3Y&usg=AFQjCNG9K4927LfGtFzT8-IAxclw-LaDdA),_

_Back to the floor that I love,_

_To a room with some lace and paper flowers,_

_Back to the gypsy that I was, to the gypsy that I was-"_

_To his little ears, her voice drowns out everything. The thunder. The lightning. Everything bad._

**

Daryl concedes that the hippie was right. Rain is pouring down, now, thunder drumming in his ears. He's wet and so are his bloodied clothes. At first, the archer tried to sleep in the corner of the hayloft, away from the hole in the ceiling. The water only traveled his way and soaked him, though, waking him from a light nap. The farmhouse was his best choice, even if he _was_ being a hard-ass about it.

He growls, tearing himself from the splintered floor and down the ladder. He almost forgets the monkey wrench.

The walkers left outside are trapped in thick, gunky mud and God knows what else. Their skeletal frames are too weak to escape, flesh tearing where they pull up from the mud, showing bone. There's no going anywhere with them. When the mud dries, they'll be unmovable. Ignoring them, he makes his way back into the farmhouse.

It's darker, now, the only source of light being the lightning crawling across the sky. The noise of the shutting front door sounds small compared to the deafening crash of thunder that rumbles the house. Daryl sniffs, rubbing an itch from his nose.

The rolling grumble even drowns out the creaky steps he stumbles up. It doesn't drown out the slamming of a guest room door, though. It's ridiculously loud. 

Without unlacing his crummy boots, he falls into bed, the springs bouncing and moaning under his sudden weight. The redneck sighs when he finally settles in.

A minute passes.

A soft knock sounds. Daryl wrinkles his nose, thinking it to be the storm.

Another soft knock.

The hunter leans up on his forearms, sighing, blearily watching the door through squinted eyes.

"What?" he grumbles, knowing it to be Paul.

"May I come in?" the man politely asks.

He contemplates. It'd be safer if the two of them were in one room.

"Yeah, whatever," the older man finally huffs, lying back down. He doesn't close his eyes, but he turns away from the door. Rovia clears his throat once he's inside, and Daryl turns back over to face him. "What?"

The master bedroom's quilt is held firmly in both of his hands, and he's avoiding the taller man's eyes. "Do you mind if I ...," he trails off.

Daryl bares his teeth, ready to tell the man to _back off_ , before he realizes that he's pointed towards a random spot on the floor. Calming himself, he rasps, "go ahead. Just don't do nothin' that'll disturb my sleep." Pause. "Like talkin'." After making his short command, he lies back down. On his back, this time.

Paul nods. He lies down on the hardwood floor, left of the bed, then pulls the blanket over his entire body. Head and all, long hair sprouting from one end. The only comfort that isn't the hard, dusty floor is the big pillow under his head. You'd think he would lie down on the blanket, too.

Daryl snorts. "Why're you doin' that? It's hot as hell." And insanely humid. The archer himself was working up a fine sweat, and he didn't even need the blanket to do that.

The lump on the floor shuffles around. "What happened to the ' _no talking_ ' rule?"

Daryl glares at the ceiling. "New rule: I can break the ' _no talkin_ '' rule. You can't."

 _ **CRASH**_.

That one lasts awhile, and the older man blinks, brows pinched. This was a severe one.

Paul mumbles something that he doesn't quite catch over all the noise.

"I can't hear you."

"Astraphobia," Rovia explains, louder this time, halfway under the bed.

The archer rolls the word around his mouth. "You afraid of some lightnin'?"

No answer.

"S'just a storm. You tellin' me you're afraid of some loud noise when there's dead people walkin' around?" He turns his head over to the left, listening for a reply. There isn't one. "I ain't makin' fun of you, if that's what you're wonderin'. M'just confused."

Another ' _ **boom**_ ' of thunder, rain pelting and splashing against the only window in the room. Daryl sighs, turning away from the other man. Stares at the silhouettes of raindrops on the wall.

"I've been afraid of them ever since I was little," Jesus murmurs. "I don't know why. It's a phobia. There's rarely ever any telling where they come from. It just," he pauses, thinking of what words to use. "It just is."

Daryl doesn't reply for awhile. What can he say to the other man? Anything would just come out wrong. He's not good at comforting others. It was never his forté. "Alright," he settles on. It sounds good enough.

No other words are exchanged between the two of them. He thinks he catches some soft hums before sleep takes him.

Their conversation was short-lived, but it was something. Something that wasn't just silence. 

 

 


	8. The Mercy Of the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter on a laptop. A LAPTOP. At 3 o'clock in the morning.
> 
> Talk about a breath of fresh air, loves.
> 
> ALSO, some chapters will be named after OST's in the show. Like this one, for example. 
> 
> Enjoy. <3

Both men come to a compromise the following morning. They will remain in the area until it is entirely drained of all useful items. The two of them work diligently, a few words spoken between them here and there. They weren't words of conversation, though, like the night before. Like a couple days before. Their words were instead soft-spoken commands or small statements. Some suggestions. 

" _You forgot to check the bottom drawer_."

" _You look under there_ , _yet_?"

" _Try lookin' on top of it_." 

It's something Daryl's used to- something he can work with. It reminds him of his family. Rick. The ringleader; the one who pulled them all together and got them to do shit even when all hope was lost.

He thinks of all of em'. Back when they had to track down any and every little resource there was. Like how it was for them at the prison. When Carol almost sacrificed her life for some water. When Hershel almost died cause' they almost couldn't find something to bandage his leg with. When Lori died because no one was there for her. T-Dog's unnecessary and untimely death. The sudden derail of his thoughts causes sadness to flare in his chest and up his throat. He needs to pull himself together. Clawing the palms of his calloused hands with dirty fingernails, he blinks. Not enough to break the skin, but enough to ground him. It only helps a little, but it's enough. For now.

Paul appears from behind the bed with a tired sigh. He doesn't notice Daryl's sudden stress. That, or he doesn't want to question it. The redneck'll lash out again, won't he? "I think I've got everything," he says. 

"You _think_ ," Daryl said, rubbing at the crescents his nails left behind. "That ain't good enough. You gotta _know_ you found everythin'." 

The younger man stares at him for a bit, eyebrows raised. "Okay, I _know_ I've found everything." 

The archer nods, turning away to zip up his floral-patterned pack. "Then we're goin'."

"Already? I thought we'd at least wait until tomorrow morning." 

Paul's gloved hands are on his hips, cocked to the side. It's almost a humorous sight. "Nah."

"You're sure?" He notices that Rovia's cerulean eyes are locked onto his shoulder, and he huffs. "It's just after our run-in with those walkers, I thought it would be better for you to rest. Just for a little while longer." Pause. "So, you're absolutely sure you're okay with doing this?"

"Yeah, m'sure." He two-straps the bag, hands loosely gripping them. "We gonna go, or are we gonna talk all day long?" The smaller man's endless stream of concern for him was beginning to make him uncomfortable. 

Jesus rolls his shoulders, and follows closely behind the other man when he exits, shutting the door behind them. It was always strange leaving a home that he took shelter in. People lived there once. A family made memories there before all of this. Left it all behind in the pictures on the walls. The hunter's eyes scan over said pictures one last time before they leave the home.

Outside greets them with a picture of bright sunshine and blue skies, the polar opposite of the day before. He has to squint his eyes just to see. And his guesses from last night were correct. Mud traps the walkers in the yard, and it tears at the skin where they try to pull away. Jesus wrinkles his nose, face torn between a mixture of disgust and amusement. 

The same goes for Daryl. Until he gets a better look. 

"What are you doing?" Paul asks as the older man suddenly takes a detour, heading in one of the creature's direction with a frown on his face. The younger man stops just a few feet short behind him once he reaches it. Daryl's probably about four feet away from it's writhing form. 

Wind tussles up the archer's hair, and he pushes it away from his eyes with a hand. Milky eyes meet his own- yellowed tuffs of once-white hair. Torn overalls and a bloodied, dirtied work shirt. It's the old man in the picture. The farmer. The father. He thought that he'd at least get out. Someone here had to. At least one of them. 

He thinks of Hershel. Of Beth. Of Maggie. 

 "Daryl?" Jesus wonders. 

The redneck scrutinizes the walker a little while longer before setting his bag down. He pulls out the monkey wrench. Paul wants to question him. Why would you waste your energy on this? It's just another walker. But he doesn't. Another moment of peering passes before the taller man suddenly bashes it's head in with a loud shout. Jesus startles, jumping back. This goes on for a few minutes- the archer delivering hard blows to the undead man's face with angry cries. Even once it's fallen over and on the ground. 

Over and over and over until he decides to stop.

He's breathing in harsh rasps when he leans back up, away from the smashed matter of what doesn't even appear human anymore. Daryl tilts his head up to the sky, eyes shut. Stays like that for a long time. It takes a bit for his gasps to settle, and when he calms, he looks back down at the mess he's made. Whispers something that Jesus doesn't catch.  

"Let's go," he finally snarls, snatching his bag back up and pushing past the smaller man.

Paul blinks rapidly at his departing back before following the other to the road that lies in front of the house. He doesn't question what went down. Doesn't question the direction the archer decides to take, which is to the right of the broken home. Gravel crunches under the redneck's stomping feet, and Paul doesn't even bother with saying anything. Whatever happened back there was something Paul wouldn't be able to understand. Something obviously personal.   

Daryl focuses on the small rocks before him. On the sound of singing cicadas. The chirrups and croaks of crickets and frogs in the tall grass on either side of the road. Random birds in the trees and the dead cornfields, which also surround both sides of their path. The hippie is silent, which is a small blessing to him. It's what he needs right now. To quiet the onslaught of unwanted thoughts in his head. But it's also torture. The thoughts are still there. They refuse to leave. Hershel's throat being hacked into. Beth's brain matter splattering his vest. Maggie's pregnancy problems. Not knowing if she or everyone else were okay. He couldn't- _he can't_ -

"I miss brownies," Paul says.

Daryl sucks in a breath. "What?"

"Brownies. I miss their soft, gooey texture. The caramel-fudge ones, especially," he adds mournfully. "They were one of the few good things left in the old world."

Daryl listens to their steps against the road, surprised. At Paul for opening his mouth when it was supposedly not wanted, and at himself for not getting immediately bothered by it. 

The taller man just stares at his moving feet and listens. He thinks he's supposed to be irritated with the hippee by now, but he ain't. Instead, he listens. It helps him. It actually helps. Sure, he don't reply, but that doesn't stop the other from yapping on and on about his beloved, missed delicacy. And other mouth-watering foods. 

He knows it won't last for long, but he's momentarily calm. At ease.

It's something he desperately needed.    


	9. Moodboard (1/?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There will be more of these to come. <3 They're to represent different places/things that are in the story. 
> 
> I can't wait to create more, which will probably be between every few chapters.


	10. You've Got A Friend In Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's 9AM, and i haven't slept
> 
> insomnia, am i right???? haha
> 
> anyways, if there's any grammatical errors, i'm sorry
> 
> enjoy <33
> 
> tumblr: that-darus-boi

The bright sun beats down on them in relentless rays of heat, and Daryl readjusts the bag slung over one shoulder. The other strap prickled and rubbed against his cauterized wound too much, irritating it, so he ended up one-strapping. Said strap scrapes against his diaphoretic skin, and he scowls. At least it made it stick in one place instead of sliding down like it had an hour earlier. Before he was doused with perspiration. His eyes flicker around, eyeing different bits of gravel and dirt clumps that crunch under his footwear. The sound is soothing to his sensitive ears. Paul stopped rambling awhile ago, opting instead to preserve some energy. That, or he gave up, given that the older man hadn't responded to any of his words. The archer doesn't get how the smaller man hasn't died of heat stroke yet, being as smothered under all of that apparel as he is.

The hunter looks up at the sky, eyes and nose crinkled under the luminosity it offers him. It really was a nice day, and the senses he had buried in his chest told him it was perfect hunting weather. Reminded of his intolerable hunger, his stomach growls at him. He stops, and Paul almost runs into him. The other was close behind, and must've been looking down at the ground, too.

"Hungry?" Daryl grouses, looking at the trees and tall grass in the surrounding area. They lost the sight and smell of dead, damp cornfield about an hour into their trekking. He turns to face Jesus, then, and the man lets out a small sigh.

"Yes, actually." He's got his beanie stuffed into the pocket of his coat and his hair's back up in a bun, random strands fuzzy and waving wildly about in the humidity of after-rain. He looks almost uncomfortable with the admission.

Daryl gets it. He knows that Paul knows that he can go for days- even a week- without any kind of sustenance. The smaller man must have thought he would sound whiny and weak in his hungry state. Daryl almost snorts. Paul lives- ( _lived?_ )- in a place where you could go to bed every night with at least _some_ amount food in your belly. Daryl didn't really have that. It was rare for Alexandria to have enough to send everyone to bed with a comfortably full stomach. So, it's completely understandable that Paul was hungry.

There's also the fact that the both of them have been running on the fumes of a fried frog leg for two days. That's nothing, especially when it's two _grown men_ that consumed said frog legs.

So, yeah. Paul's hungry, Daryl's hungry, and the weather is good for hunting. 

"Let's find some place to stop," the taller man said, walking off the road and into the wooded area next to it. 

"Already? You're sure?" Jesus follows suit, the tall grass reaching his belly whereas it only reaches up to Daryl's thighs.

"Yer hungry, right?"

No answer, save for the swishing of grass against their clothes. Heavy breathing. 

" ... Yes," he finally says, and Daryl does snort, then. 

"Then we're takin' a break. I'm gonna hunt, and yer gonna sit back an' make camp." 

They break into the woods, then, and he sniffs, heading toward some underbrush. It's obvious that the bushy darkness of it will lead them into a clearing. Well, it's obvious to the tracker. Hands on his knees, he bends down to inspect it. It does. He sees light filtering into a small area, much like the first place they hid in. Jesus doesn't question him when he pushes it apart, heading through. As expected, he just follows.

"Quick question," Paul says as Daryl sets his bag down. "How are you going to hunt? You don't exactly have anything to hunt, uhh, hunt _with_."

"I know," is all the archer says in return, sniffing at the floral sack. 

The other presses his lips together then scratches his nose. Honestly, why was he surprised by the answer? Who knew what this man had up his sleeve.

"M'gonna need yer knife," the redneck said. "I'll get somethin'. There's fresh tracks all aroun' here." He waves a tanned arm out, scanning things with his cornflower eyes that were invisible to the younger man's own eyes. "I know they're fresh cause' it just rained. They'd've washed away."

Jesus nods in mock understanding, unsheathing his knife from it's pouch. "Okay." He hands it to the other, casually. "I trust you to bring something back. Meanwhile, I will make camp." Daryl stares at the lethal bowie, spinning the tip of the blade into a finger-pad before nodding. He encases it in the pouch that he used for his own missing knife. 

"Be back in a coupla hours," he says, turning away and following a trail of tracks into the undergrowth, uncaring of any thorns that prick bared skin.

He misses the unsure, "alright."

**

Two skunks. That's what the archer carries back into the clearing, prominent stab wounds visible in the back of their necks. Jesus gapes, nose wrinkling in preparation for the smell. There isn't one, to his surprise. Once again. Daryl sets them in front of the fire before sitting down himself. He immediately gets to work on skinning them. The younger man looks away from the gory sight, and coughs into his shoulder. He wants to ask just _how in the hell_ Daryl managed to do this, but he doesn't. He just watches the crackling fire, listening to the mashing squelches of critter guts being torn out.

Tired of simply looking into the sweltering flames, he takes off his imbrued gloves and shoves them into his leather pocket alongside the woolen hat. Warms his hands in front of the fire. It's beginning to grow a bit chilly as night falls, the heat suddenly fading out, light leaving with it. It is almost fall, after all.

"Know how to make a spit?" the hunter rasps, tearing some more skin from one of the small, black-and-white creatures.

"Yes, but we don't exactly have any string to tie the sticks together," he explains, now watching Daryl's hands at work.

"Make do with some of the tall grass over there." The older man tips his chin towards an area that contains patches of said grass before continuing his current task. "Should be thick enough. Jus' get a handful an' use that." 

Paul blinks. "Right." And does just as the taller man asked. Scrounges up a few thick branches to create the spit. Somehow, he manages to create it, finishing it off with a small grunt of exertion. The skunks are already skinned by the time he's finished, Daryl using that time to check out his shoulder. "We have that first aid kit in the bag. I'm going to have to put some antibiotic's on it, sooner or later. Use sterile wipes and all that." Paul smiles at him, cerulean eyes glittering in the glow of the flickering flames he's standing over. He presses some of the spit into the ground with a groan. He's taken his jacket off incase of catching fire. "It'll sting, but it won't be as bad as cauterization." He pauses to give a final, hard push. "Am I right?"

Daryl's glaring at him now, but it's weak. Paul takes that as a good sign of developing kinship. 

Rovia steps away from his creation. "Ready for some roasted Pepé Le Pew?" The archer squints, confusion filtering his features. "You know, Looney Tunes?" Even more confusion. Jesus stops that train of conversation, and the other man readies the animals for cooking.

 

**

Roasted Pepé isn't half bad, actually. The both of them have a skunk to themselves, and they're both easily devoured. The younger man realizes a bit too late that they probably should have saved some for the road. He says just as much. "Maybe we should have saved some." 

"Nah," the older man replies, steadily, sucking off each of his fingers with quiet _pops_. Ridding them of anything left from the meat. Paul does the same. "We was hungry. It's fine."  

He nods. "Well, it's time to clean your wound." Daryl gets up from the casual position he's lying in and sits up, lazily crossing his legs. Jesus grabs the bag that's on the opposite side of the fire and unzips it, pulling out the aid kit. He returns to the older man and plops down next to him. Opening the kit, he pulls out some sanitary wipes. He uses them to wipe his own hands, the sharp smell quickly hitting both men's nostrils.

"What're you doin'?" 

"Cleaning my hands of any dirt or bacteria." The archer scoffs at that, looking off to the side, dark hair curling over the cauterized shoulder. "I know the apocalypse is a dirty place, but we don't have to make it any dirtier than it has to be." As soon as he's finished. he tosses the used wipe into the fire. It incinerates within a second. Snatching another wipe, he begins to softly sterilize the wound. It's going to leave an unpleasant scar. Daryl may never even be able to lift his arm above his head again. It's a little upsetting. 

Sounds of crickets, screeching toads, and owls infiltrate their hideout. The mournful howl of a coyote even sounds, its brethren screaming alongside it. It resembles the sound of many wailing women. It's very distant, though. Wood in the fire crackles and falls under its own weight, causing sparks to flare up and escape into the atmosphere. There's no canopy above them, this time, offering the view of the night sky. Stars litter its liquid-black surface like a Van Gogh painting.

Paul finishes after two wipes, throwing each of them into the licking flames of their small fire. He nabs the only gauze roll their open kit contains, and begins wrapping it under the armpit and over the shoulder, covering the burnt-out gunshot wound in its entirety. No words are spoken until he finishes. "Done and done," the smaller man says, grinning at his handy-work. What can he say? He's pretty proud of it.

"Thanks," the hunter said, scooting further away. "M'gonna keep watch, first. Get some sleep."

Rovia's grin widens. "Thank you."

He sleeps peacefully. Daryl doesn't even wake him for watch.     

 

   

  

 

 


	11. The Boy Scout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry that this is so late. was havin' a bit of a writer's block. 
> 
> love you, and enjoy <333
> 
> tumblr: that-flawless-boi

_Paul huffs, eyes watering from the exposure to smoke. He's huddled over a pile of logs, arranged in a fashion that is supposed to make it burn easier. According to the scout leader, anyways. He's been blowing on and protecting his objective for what felt like hours, though in reality, it couldn't have been only thirty minutes. Tired and discouraged, he sits back on his haunches, groaning at the strain his position had put in his thighs. They're sore, now, and his throat burns from smoke inhalation. He looks around to find that the other boys have already started their own fires as if it were the simplest task. They'd have to wait for him, and he doesn't want that. He doesn't want to be a burden to the group._

_He's already seen as different and weird by the others. He can't be seen as foolish and incapable, either. He wants to make the scout leader proud. He wants to be seen as a capable person._

_Paul turns back to the smoking mess he's made and continues to blow on it. Cradle it. He can do this he **can** \-    _

_"Need help, sport?" he hears Mr. Davidson, the leader, grumble from somewhere behind him. The older man crouches beside Rovia, old knees popping._

_Paul hunches his shoulders._ _"It's okay. I've got this, Mr. Davidson," he replies steadily, continuing his slow and fruitless process._

_"Kid," a large hand settles on his shoulder, pulling him away. He's faced with Davison's gelled back, whitening hair and ridiculous chevron mustache. He notices some liver spots at his temples, and some deep wrinkles that crinkle in the corners of his pale, green eyes. All that's missing is a fat cigar between his lips, which Paul usually caught him puffing on after scout meetings. "You need help, and that's okay. People need help, sometimes. Even the strongest of people." The boy stares at the other man, blinking at the sudden inspirational speech. "Hell, I needed help gettin' out of my armchair the other day," he laughs, patting Paul's shoulder roughly. "So let me help ya'."_

_"Alright," he settles, looking back at the fire. He wasn't given anything to start the fire with, which made it all the more difficult. He noticed the other boys had rocks they created sparks with and some moss, but he didn't say anything. They'd probably snort at him and make fun, like they always did._

_"Now, where's your fire starting materials?"  Davidson grouses, brows pinched._

_"Uhm," the boy clears his throat. "I didn't get any. I had just assumed that the others had to find them." Pause. "I didn't know where to look."_

_His leader sighs, shaking his head. "Sorry, son. You were supposed to get some." The man leans back, meeting the others with a glare. "Who didn't give Rovia the materials he needed?"_

_A few quiet snickers and chuckles pass through the group like a wave. "Sorry, we didn't know," says Charlie- a pale, ginger boy with a big nose and small eyes. He's considered the "top dog" to the others. No boy talks him down unless they want a mean shove or a punch. He'd always get away with it, too. His parents being rich and all._

_"Mhm," Davidson hums in obvious disbelief. "Let me get the stuff for you." He then stands with a grunt and wanders off, leaving him alone. The group is staring at him, sneering and cracking quiet jokes about the whole situation._

_He breathes in and out, slowly, staring off somewhere that isn't a shrewd and judgmental face. Davidson returns shortly, gratefully, and he sits back down. He's wearing his usual tan cargo pants, a white shirt tucked into them. He looks like he belongs in a rich country club- not in the middle of a field. He's gonna get grass stains._

_"Know what this is?" He holds up a sharp, black rock with weathered hands. It's thin and its appearance gives off the vibes of being very light-weight._

_Paul blinks, awkwardly clearing his throat. "No, sir."_

_Davidson nods, turning it between his fingers. "This is called flint stone. You use is to create sparks." Well, Paul knew **that** much, at least. The other pulls another one from his back pocket and then hits it off the other with a sharp **clack**. A bright spark flies, and the boy swiftly leans back to avoid it, eyes widening at the proximity. _

_"Good reflexes," the scout leader teases, holding the rocks out to him. "Take em'. Get some moss, and I think you'll get the gist. You're a smart kid." Rovia's lips part in surprise when Davidson suddenly stands, clapping his hands together and wiping the bottom of his pants of any dust or grass. He departs with a wink._

_Paul watches his retreating back and then looks at the stones in his hands. He creates his own spark and brightly smiles._

_The fire starts much more easily._

**

Jesus swipes a gloved thumb over his lips, over and over, lost in thought. Images of his past life swirl around in his mind, and it almost hurts him. Almost. He's gotten past that. As long as he doesn't talk about it, he'll be fine. 

He's lying beside their little fire, staring into the glowing embers of its pit. It irritates his eyes when tendrils of smoke flow into them, so he looks at Daryl, instead, who's lying on the opposite side of the campfire. The archer is munching on some squirrel he hunted down earlier in the day. Paul had gotten his own squirrel, too, and he still doesn't know how the older man caught them. Like the skunks from the other night, they had marks in the backs of their necks. It was messier, though, given their small size. 

"How did you," the younger man trails off, flapping a hand at the leftover skins and guts of squirrel lying on the forest floor. Daryl's expression is deadpan, flecks of meat at the corners of his mouth. "How did you kill them?"

"With the knife," Daryl answers, taking another small bite. Paul can't tell if he's making fun or being serious.

So he says, "okay," pale eyes flickering back to the fire. A moment of silence passes.

Daryl clears his throat, sucking on his fingers. "I, uh, sneak up on em'." Jesus looks back up, blinking. The hunter isn't looking at him, opting instead to look into the fire. "Gotta get real close without em' hearin' you. S' called "still huntin'". Was taught by my brother." Daryl bites the inside of his cheek and doesn't offer anymore information after that. Paul just nods, playing with his gloved hands. 

He decides that it's best to just leave it at that. The other man's brother was obviously a soft spot, and Jesus considers it a small win that he even mentioned his sibling. That means that the redneck is opening up some more, even if it's only a little bit more.

It's silent, but it's a comfortable silence. Also a first. Rays of sunlight filter through the leaves and down on them. It's warm, but it's beginning to grow chillier. Autumn is close. 

"We should continue walking tomorrow," the smaller man murmurs, staring at the gloves he's fiddling with. It's usually Daryl who makes the plans, so he's a tad bit wary as to how Daryl will react. 

"Okay," he replies, staring at his fingers, searching and feeling for anymore grease to consume. He's already licked clean the leftover food on his face. 

A tiny smile unfurls at the corner of Jesus' mouth.  

   

 


	12. Ellie Brookes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's christmas so here's ur present 
> 
> remember all those times i said i was gonna write this and i didn't i'm so sorry for that. 
> 
> i love you guys. thank you for your words of encouragement. <33
> 
> tumblr: that-flawless-boi

_"I don't want no trouble," Daryl murmurs, eyes down. It's a day after Earl struck him in the face and tried to chuck a beer bottle at him. Luckily, though a bit dazed from the punch, he ducked just in time for it to hit the wall. The younger Dixon was used to his father's violent outbursts at this point and was able to predict his moves. A few small shards managed to bury themselves in his cheeks and arms, though. It's noticeable the next day- small scabs forming and an odious bruise under his eye and on his cheekbone. He'd gone to school like that for what felt like an innumerable amount of times. The teachers just stopped asking about it when they realized he would never tell the truth, only offering pitying glances instead. The day had gone like that up until now. "I jus' wanna get back to class."_

_Trenton Fischer's eyes crinkle under a sardonic smile. "Course' I'll let you get back to class," he says, ' **playfully** ' slapping Daryl's shoulder, who flinches at the unpleasant contact. He knew Trenton well- the boy was also bullied. A bully who bullied to relieve the stress of being bullied. He wasn't like that, unfortunately. He'd been hurt so much- he couldn't imagine putting anyone else through it, and Trenton knew that. His boys did, too. "I just want to talk for a bit." _

_The thirteen year old Dixon boy knew what that meant._

_A tense silence is spent between the two for a few minutes, Trenton staring him down. His shoulders hunch up higher and higher for every passing second, awaiting the first punch. It comes quick._

_He hits the floor under its surprising strength. As he moves to get up, the other boy kicks him in the side. He goes back down with a grunt._

_"Stay down," Trenton hisses, delivering another kick. Daryl doesn't try to get back up again, opting instead to cover his face with his forearms. He's immediately brought back to the other day, the young boy replaced by his father. He stiffens, eyes clenching shut, Fischer's voice deepening- turning into a raspy, drunken slur like Earl's._ _It lasts a few more minutes, the bully ending it with a kick at his arms, which are shielding his face. The force gets to the bruise on his cheek, and he whimpers, curling in on himself. "God, yer fuckin' pathetic. White trash that don't know how to fight back." A snort. Daryl blinks, remaining in his uncomfortable position even as Trenton retreats, muttering other hateful comments._

_As soon as he believes the other is gone, he loosens up with an exasperated huff of air. The warm feel of blood is dribbling from his nose and down his lips, and he reaches up to wipe it. The sanguine liquid is on his shirt and dripping down onto the white, marble floor of the hallway. Using the lockers for support, he stands, holding his nose to block off anymore from spilling free._

_"Uhm, are you okay?" Daryl looks up from his ruined shirt to see a young girl. He immediately recognizes her as Ellie Brookes. She's in a few of his classes. Long, curly red hair. Green eyes. Fair skin. Wears a lot of makeup and pricey clothing._

_Likes girls._

_Everyone in his grade makes fun of her for that- calls her a ' **carpet muncher** ' and other crude shit. It pisses him off even though he doesn't know her. Anything that has to do with cruelty frustrates him, even if it's just words.  _

_"Yeah, m'good," he replies, eyeing her as he lifts his head to stem more of the blood flow._

_She presses her glossed-up lips together, an eyebrow arching in obvious disbelief. "Sure." Ellie makes her way toward him with sudden determination, and he steps back, leaning against the yellow lockers. She pauses, examining his reaction and carefully goes to reach into her little blue, faux leather purse, pulling out what looks like makeup. "That's a pretty mean bruise you've got. Luckily for you, I've got just the thing to cover it up." She hovers the object over his eyes, making it easier for him to see just what it is. "Do you mind?"_

_Daryl's eyes narrow. "I ain't no priss."_

_"Of course you aren't. You can wash it off whenever you like." She pulls back and opens it with a small ' **click'**. "And luckily for you, we have a similar skin complexion." She pulls a small brush from the bag, too, and dabs the dark bristles into some of the pale makeup. "That being said, may I?" _ _He stares at it for a little while longer before deflating with an annoyed sigh. Ellie takes that as a ' **yes** ' and begins to apply it. "Daryl, right?"_

_"Yeah," is all he says, nose wrinkling at the tickling feel of the brush as she slides it along his cheekbone._

_"I see you alone a lot." Another quick dab. "Where are your friends?" Some more applying._

_Daryl doesn't get offended by her question because he can tell that it's a genuine question. She isn't mocking him. "Don't got none," he answers truthfully._

_She nods, lips pressed together, eyes glowing with sympathy. She doesn't say or ask anything else. After a minute or two, she pulls back with a bright smile. "There! All done. Would you like to see?" Daryl blinks as she puts the concealer away to pull out a small mirror. Putting it up to his line of sight, his lips open on a barely traceable gasp. It really was gone- no sign of black or blue. "Nice, huh?" She puts it away once he's finished ogling._

_They stand there after, looking at one another awkwardly for some time before Ellie inquires, "would you like to come over to my house today? After school? My girlfriend and I are going out to see a movie, and I'd love for you to come. I'll even pay."  T_ _he young boy's eyebrows furrow at the sudden and unexpected plan. She just raises both of her immaculate brows in turn, expecting an answer._

_"Uh, sure."_

_"Great," she grins, clapping her hands together. "Just meet me after school, and my mom can give you a ride to my house and then to the theater when it's time. You can get acquainted with me and my girlfriend, and who knows- maybe we'll do this again sometime." Softly- kindly- she pats his shoulder. "Also," she reaches into her bag yet **again** and pulls out some tissues. "For the nose bleed." Daryl takes them, grateful. "Now if you don't mind, I'll be heading back to class. This bathroom break has gotten ridiculously long." She waves her fingers at him, long hair swishing as she turns to go._

_Daryl stares at her retreating back, frowning in confusion._

**

The archer shivers, clouds covering up the sun and denying the two wandering men of any of its warmth. It doesn't help that Dwight took his vest, leaving him in a thin, sleeveless shirt. Yes, his vest didn't have sleeves, either, but that was better than this. He'd need to a coat and soon. Autumn was fast approaching.

"-and the wasabi ball was _this_ big- no joke," Jesus rambles, gloved fingers spaced far apart, making it easier for Daryl to picture said wasabi ball. "He just shoved it in my mouth. My eyes watered and my nose got runny. I can handle spice, don't get me wrong, but that was just too much." The redneck snorts, and he looks off to the side. The silence of the past two days they've spent traveling has been filled with Paul's words. The archer doesn't know whether to be annoyed or thankful. Annoyed because well ... he prefers the quiet. Thankful because he's worried. Worried because they haven't found any highways or signs that would lead them back home. "It was pretty hysterical," the smaller man finishes, grinning, blue eyes twinkling with mirth. 

"I bet." He shivers again, rolling his shoulders, only to end up wincing in pain. The hippie notices. 

"You alright?" 

"M'fine." 

"Okay," he replies. "Stop for a bit." The tracker does, eyeing Jesus warily. He goes to stand behind Daryl and unzips their floral bag, pulling the shitty blanket out of it. Zipping it back up, he tenderly lays it over Daryl's firm shoulders. "There we go. Better?" The hunter stares at the other before continuing his walk, shaking his head in bewilderment. "I'll take that as a solid maybe," he said, stepping back up next to the redneck. "But really, is that better?"

"Sure," he settles, sniffling at the cold that's biting his nose. It actually did help a little bit, but he wasn't going to give Paul the satisfaction. They'd grown a little closer in their time together, but not close enough for Daryl to fully trust the little guy. He still saw him as a cheeky asshole. He was simply someone who could help ensure the tracker's survival, and that went vice versa. Daryl ensured his survival, therefore Jesus ensured his own survival. That's all they were to one another.

"Well, that's better than nothing, I guess."

The clouds suddenly part, then, and Daryl catches something shining off in the tree line. He ducks, eyes focusing in on that spot. Jesus follows suit. "What is it?" he questions. 

"Over there," the archer points, and the other man nods, also spotting it.

"Are we gonna go check it out, or ...?"

He answers that question by inching forward, and catches a vexed sigh from Rovia. As they reach the side of the road, Daryl looks over the tall grass to see what it is. It's a rusting car, the windows tinted and covered in dirt. A red minivan. He stands up, making his way toward it. As usual, Jesus follows.

Wanting a closer look, he peers in through the front windows. A walker is trapped in the driver's seat, leaning over the belt and making grabby hands at him with muffled growls. He's got on a nice, leather jacket that Daryl could really use. Stepping away, he looks over to see the other man peeping through the back windows. He's frowning, jaw clenched.

"What?" the archer rasps.

"There's a, uh." Pause. "There's a carseat with a little ... with a little kid." He steps away with a rough swallow, blue eyes troubled. "A little girl." Daryl presses his thin lips together, eyeballing the door handle.

"Stand back a little further," he rumbles, setting his pack down to pull out the monkey wrench. The blanket falls off of him in the process, and Jesus picks it up, shaking it out. Wrench in hand, he moves around to the driver's side and smashes the window in with ease. The walker goes to grab him, but he smashes its head in before it can do anything else. Brown blood spatters down his arms and vest. Unlocking the door through the smashed window with a grimace, he opens it, the undead man falling halfway out. He leans over it and unbuckles the seat belt, making it easier to nab the jacket. But before he does that, he unlocks all of the doors and then pops the trunk. "Check the back," he states, now taking the nice jacket. In the process, he glances at the backseat, seeing the little walker for the first time. Strands of her golden hair have fallen out, and her snarls are small. Her little, chipped fingernails are painted a bright purple. Some of her clacking teeth are missing. The girl's eyes are milky blue, boring right into his own.

He immediately thinks of Judith. 

"There's a cooler back here, and a trunk filled with some clothes, but that's it. Pretty ill-prepared. Must've been in a hurry." The sound of Paul's voice snaps him from his bad thoughts.

"Grab everythin' you can, an' let's go."

He puts on the black jacket in sullen silence.            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i imagine ellie to look like holland roden and mr. davidson to look like tom selleck.
> 
> yes, they will be recurring characters. yes, they will be important to both paul and daryl's lives. yes, the flashbacks will end once we reach the start of the apocalypse.
> 
> maybe.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is unbeta'ed and is being entirely written on a shitty iPod. Have mercy on me.


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